


Birdseed on the Water

by AwwKeyboardNo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Am I using these tags right?, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Gen, Immortal Merlin, It's literally poetry, M/M, Narrator could be an OC, Poetry, it's up to you, or she could be Morgana, that's all it is, the pairing are just mentions, this is super angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwwKeyboardNo/pseuds/AwwKeyboardNo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old man passes the lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birdseed on the Water

The old man passes the lake,  
staring  
sightlessly ahead,  
mouth as hard and long as a yard stick.  
Day  
after  
day  
the routine never changes.

I want to say  
hello  
I want to ask  
why  
his hands remain  
in fists  
why his eyes never turn  
towards  
the gleaming  
waters.

What is his story, I wonder

Perhaps he took a tumble  
at an age  
forever ago  
senses robbed and without breath,  
the feeling  
never  
leaving.

Today the air is frigid  
and rain trembles the glass  
of the water.  
I sit alone and watch  
as his  
long  
stride  
never  
breaks  
his face is a shard of ice.

Maybe he was in love,  
rushed and passionate  
and as fleeting as a spark  
or deep and sorrowful  
and entrapping  
like  
the plants  
beneath  
the lake

Thursday is a change.  
My bench is occupied  
by a flurry of snowy hair,  
blending with the background.  
I sit, my bag of birdfeed between us,  
and take in the lake.

Our silence is companionable  
and contemplative  
as if we are old friends  
rather  
than  
strangers  
on a bench.

I want to ask what has changed  
but something in me  
does not want to break  
the spell and bring his eyes  
up from the lake.

We never say hello or goodbye  
we don’t need to  
after all  
silence  
can say the things  
that words can’t.

Today we speak quietly;  
soft words  
thread the air  
and paint the sky.  
Pictures of the past  
hide beneath our teeth.

He now knows me,  
knows that I fear  
the changing years  
and resent  
the holders of  
my future.

I understand  
that he finds  
speaking of himself  
undesirable,  
but finds me  
like a piece  
of the tapestry  
of his life.

I speak  
whenever he does not  
which is rather a lot of the time.  
I don’t really mind  
and I speak  
of loneliness  
and the kinship  
that I found  
in his eyes. 

He has worn  
the scarf  
wrapped  
like a noose  
around his thin neck  
since he first took steps  
from his home.

My hair, he now knows,  
once curled around  
catching  
on fingertips  
as easily  
as anything  
and far different  
from the sharp shock  
of purple  
and spikes  
that it is now.

His ears,  
keen  
and sharp in their own right,  
remain hidden behind  
long white strands  
mainly because  
of the very size of them.  
He says this with an air  
of amused resignation.

We share bitten down nails  
on long graceful fingers  
an object  
of anxiety  
and boredom  
we agree solemnly.

He has been, I learn,  
to thrice as many places  
as I have been,  
and I had considered  
myself, rather foolishly, worldly.

The sun has been sneaky  
as we occupied ourselves  
and it has  
crept  
behind  
distant  
and far mountains  
to take a nap.

He happens to agree  
with the ancient judgment  
of the sleeping star  
and he bids his goodbye  
and is gone  
before I realize  
I still don’t know his name.

He doesn’t have a name  
this he swears to me  
when we see each other next  
or, he shrugs sadly  
not anymore at least.

There’s a sad smiling twinkle  
glinting behind his eyes  
and I hide my tears  
behind a joke about  
wizards with twinkling eyes  
I don’t think he finds it funny.

He doesn’t avoid  
looking  
at the luminous expanse  
of icy water  
but he goes still  
and silent  
like the lake.  
I don’t want to cause more ripples.

He had been in love  
he tells me one day  
when he had spent an hour  
looking glossily at the water.  
Twice  
and no more, he says.

The first had been  
passionate  
and brutally quick  
and over as quick as it came  
She had been  
beautiful  
and kind  
and everything good.  
And she’d been  
snuffed out  
like  
a  
candle  
in  
the  
wind.

The second, I can tell,  
he is hesitant to speak of and  
it takes quite a long time  
to even open his mouth.

But his lost love  
is simply  
very hard to put  
into words.  
And I’ve found  
myself  
later  
as I write it out  
inclined to agree.

His love was a golden light  
the old man says  
with nostalgia in his face:  
noble and charming  
as good as royalty  
and I’m not imagining his smirk.

But the golden boy wasn’t perfect  
he says with a waggling finger  
he had not been half arrogant.  
Something  
in the way he say  
those faux serious words  
has me  
laughing  
through tears.

The man says  
it was not him  
who took a trip  
into frigid water  
lungs filling  
with something not air.

Instead, his golden boy,  
his bright shining light  
had fallen,  
fallen  
and  
almost  
hadn’t  
risen  
again.

His mouth twists,  
the bitter taste  
of unpleasant memories  
taking shape  
behind his tongue.  
It had only been  
a small  
miniscule  
delay  
in an inevitable fate.

Fate,  
he says the word  
like it has curled  
gnarled claws  
into his soul,  
leaving  
wounds  
scars  
tears in a silk fabric.

Watching the golden boy go  
had been like watching  
as the rain thickens clouds  
and falls,  
d  
r  
i  
p  
onto a burning fire. 

He falls silent  
and turns gleaming  
hollow orbs  
back to the expanse  
that seems bigger  
than all the oceans  
in the world.

I don’t see him  
the next day  
or the next.  
Each time  
he isn’t there  
I bite my lip  
until  
the taste of copper  
lingers in my mouth  
like it has always been there.

When I see him next,  
the relief stifling  
like the air in July,  
my old friend  
(for that  
is what he has become)  
is beaming behind wet eyes.

He is leaving, he admits  
half happy, half sad  
to go  
farther than he has  
in a very,  
very long time.  
And, he says,  
that is all due to me.

I had become  
in his words  
a bright spot  
in a darkening world.  
And a balm to sad memories,  
the ones mixed with good,  
ones that, until I sat beside him  
had hurt too much to linger on.

Tears convene on the rim of my eyes  
and I choke on the words I want to say  
but, as is often the case,  
he seems to know  
what I mean to say  
and he pats my shoulder  
almost a hug  
and says  
thank you.

He isn’t there,  
the next day  
nor any day after.  
But  
somehow  
beneath the sadness  
beneath the sorrow  
and the tears  
I am at ease.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a one page poetry assignment. Then I blinked.


End file.
